


芍药室 | the peony house

by neurogenicshock



Category: the untamed, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Genre: Brief suicidal ideation, Caning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Past Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurogenicshock/pseuds/neurogenicshock
Summary: On the back hill, there is a small house surrounded by flowers. The sect leader visits from time to time, but never stays the night.
Relationships: Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	芍药室 | the peony house

On the back hill, there is a small house surrounded by flowers. The sect leader visits from time to time but never stays the night.

* * *

“These flowers are not native to Gusu.”

“The wood is from Yunshen. The stove to heat the bed is Gusu clay.”

“Of course. I should not have questioned.”

“You will be safe here.”

* * *

The wards that surround Yunshen Bu Zhichu became visible overnight. They disappear higher, higher, until they blend with the clouds they are named or. Inside them: only swirling, grey clouds.

Diplomatic envoys come, leave missives, wait. Blink, and you will miss the way the wards swallow them up, then recede, leaving answers in their wake.

Sometimes, they leave nothing behind. The ambassadors leave Gusu empty-handed.

Merchants from Caiyi town bring orders of Lan white fabric, fruits, vegetables, and grains to the wide archway that stands at the base of the mountain. They leave them there; in the morning, they are gone. They are paid ahead in full, by courier.

No one has left the boundaries of the Lan sect stronghold in four months.

* * *

“I think I recognize this cultivar.”

  
“You have seen it before.”

“It’s very beautiful.”

“You always favored it.”

* * *

Lan Qiren has been looking older, these days. His posture is impeccable as always, but he is tired.

He has taken over the administration of the disciple training regimen, as Wangji settles into the sect leader position.

Like the ascension of the sect leader before him: Wangji is capped alone, in front of the Lanshi, kneeling. He wears the sharp-tipped guan his brother wore before him. His hair has been tied by another’s hand.

Like the ascension of the sect leader before him: Lan Qiren says without saying that he wished for something else. He wished it had happened differently. He did not want this for his nephews.

The air outside hangs heavy, like the morning when a blizzard will arrive. Lan Zhan, zi Wangji, hao Hanguang-jun, now also Lan-zongzhu: the twenty-seventh sect leader of the Gusu Lan sect.

* * *

“Has everything been arranged?”

“That is no longer for you to trouble yourself with.”

“I would see your burdens lessened.”

“You lessen them by staying here, where you cannot be harmed.”

* * *

“A gift for you, xiongzhang.”

In his outstretched palms, Wangji holds a cherry-wood box. An orchid has been carefully etched into the lid. From where he kneels on a cushion by the bed, Lan Huan receives it, bringing it carefully to his lap with both hands.

“Will you open it?” Wangji asks, and there is, beneath it all, a note of anxiety that Lan Huan cannot bear.

“Yes, of course.” He rushes to remove the lid and set it aside gently.

The inside is lined with brocaded silk. In the center lies a two-pronged ji, set in silver and decorated at the top with a chicken’s blood stone carved into the shape of osmanthus flowers.

“This is very beautiful. Thank you, Wangji,” he says without lifting his eyes. “I am grateful for your company and generosity.”

Wangji is still hovering, still anxious. “Xiongzhang, do you recognize it?”

Holding the hairpin in his hands, Lan Huan’s shoulders fall. “I— I should, but— no, Wangji, I do not recognize it.”

“It was our mother’s.” Wangji’s voice is kind, not cruel. Lan Huan does not dare lift his eyes. He couldn’t bear to disappoint him now. “It was the only thing she kept from her life before.”

“I should not have this.”

“You are the only person who should have this.”

“I should not have it, Wangji. I want— but you gave it to me, so I should — I don’t want it, I—”

Wangji comes and kneels across from his brother, takes the box from his hands and sets it on the ground. He puts his palms across Lan Huan’s, holds them. A cool wave washes over Lan Huan and he feels his panic, his strange anxiety abate. After a moment, Wangji takes one hand and uses his thumb to wipe away the tears that had begun to spill down Lan Huan’s cheeks.

“Thank you, Wangji,” Lan Huan says, almost-silent.

“Your hands are shaking less than they were.” Wangji replies. “Your skin is clear again. You are doing much better, these days. I am happy you are safe here. ”

“Thank you, Wangji,” Lan Huan says again. “I am sorry to have caused so much distress. You should not have to bear the burdens of my failures.”

“I am honored to care for my elder brother in his retirement and secluded meditation,” Wangji says, voice still warm but returning to his usual elevated cadence. “I would be more greatly honored if he would allow me to affix his hair for him. It would be good for you to wear this style, now. It would help you in finding peace here.”

“This belonged to our mother.” Lan Huan’s fingertips brush along the silver of the ji. Wangji is right; they shake less than they did. “If you think me deserving of it, then of course.”

Wordlessly, Wangji moves around so he is sitting on the bed, with Lan Huan’s back to him. He lifts the wooden comb and hair oil that sit at the bedside and begins detangling the strands of hair from the bottom up.

He removes the topknot where it is tied with a ribbon — the guan has been taken away, and now sits in the Lanshi waiting for the ascension ceremony in several days — and begins twisting his brother’s hair into a high bun. “You cannot stay in the Hanshi, xiongzhang. Once you are no longer sect leader, it will not be proper.”

“Where will I go?” The question is asked with almost no inflection. It is a question of mere curiosity, of a desire to be prepared. Lan Huan would never question Wangji’s judgement; if he says the Hanshi is no longer proper, Lan Huan will leave.

“I will return tomorrow and take you to a home that is better suited. I have been preparing it for you.”

“You are thoughtful and conscientious as always, Wangji. Anyone who does not see that is a fool.”

Wangji’s hand stills in his brother’s hair for just a moment. A second later, Lan Huan feels him move away. He braces, as he has learned to, and soon feels the sharp sting of the rattan cane that is kept in the corner for moments exactly like this. It strikes twice across his shoulders, once in both directions.

A moment later, Wangji is kneeling by him again. “What rules have been broken, xiongzhang?”

Lan Huan blinks back the tears in the corners of his eyes. “Do not speak ill of others. Do not cause pain to others with careless words.”

“Good.” Wangji presses a kiss to his temple, then settles back in, picks the hair up to finish styling it. He cradles Lan Huan’s head in his hands, pulls him to lean against the inside of his thigh, familiar. “Wei Ying will return soon. I will show him your new home, when he comes. It will be quiet there.”

As always, Lan Huan understands. In this place, he will have the time and tranquility he needs to recenter himself, to study the precepts and reflect on them.

Wangji has always loved him so well, so thoroughly. There is no one, in the world, who could love him like this. Lan Huan was a fool to ever think otherwise.

* * *

“Is this our mother’s house, Wangji?”

“No.”

“Did you plant the flowers yourself?”

  
  
“I did.”

* * *

It is raining, a late-autumn thunderstorm that pounds against the roof of the Hanshi, rhythmic and relentless. Lan Wangji’s fingers on the doorframe are curled and white; he is soaking wet.

“Wei Ying has left.”

From where he kneels, by the fire pit, Lan Huan looks up from under his eyelashes. Before, he might have felt relief that Wei Ying had left; his presence meant at times Lan Huan would go weeks between visits from his brother, and he was not permitted other visitors.

Now, he knows the truth more deeply: he has lost the right to feel anything about Wei Wuxian, except what Wangji advises. So he sits, and raises his eyes. His hands are hidden inside his sleeves, folded in his lap.

Even at rest, his hands tremble. They are cold despite the fire. “I wish him safe travels and a rapid return.”

“He will not return for some time.” Wangji has not moved from the doorway. His voice is even, cold, but his shoulders heave. Lan Huan’s thoughts have been clouded of late, but he finds the thread: his brother must have run here. “He has said he does not wish to settle here, in Yunshen. He has said he wants freedom, not to be tied down to a single place.”

Lan Huan returns his eyes to his lap. He does not speak, Wangji does not seem to want him to speak.

Wangji takes a step through the door and closes it, slowly, carefully, with cold rage that radiates across the room and chills it to ice. “He said he is worried for me, xiongzhang. He said I am possessive and controlling, and that while he finds those qualities appealing, he has begun to doubt my restraint.”

He stalks across the floor, water dripping from his blue robes and pooling on the wood. “We had a fight, xiongzhang. Do you know what our fight was about?”

“I do not, Wangji,” Lan Huan says. He holds his body very still. His hands, concealed as they are, still tremble. “I am sorry.”

Lan Huan’s jaw is wrenched upwards by a cold, wet hand gripping it from the bottom. Wangji crouches in front of him, face impassive and almost cruel.

Wangji has never taken this look with him. Lan Huan feels the ice spreading down his spine as Wangji continues: “We fought about you.”

Panic settles into its place in Lan Huan’s chest; he scrabbles and tries to get away, but his limbs are uncoordinated. He has lost the grace he was once known for; he is reduced to a newborn fawn, fumbling to pull away from a snare and finding herself more hopelessly tangled. 

Wangji grabs him, pulls him back down, now on his left hip and supporting his weight on his hands. He turns his chin back up and forces Lan Huan to look him in the eyes. The heavy brocade of Lan Huan’s outer robe is falling off him, dragging his inner robe along with it. He had given up fastening the ties after too many failed attempts. The winter chill of the room bites at the exposed skin; Wangji drags a hand to push it the rest of the way off.

When he speaks, his voice is as cold as the rest of him. “You should not have told him about the letters.”

* * *

“My forehead ribbon feels as if it is heavier than normal.”

“I have changed the ornament.”

“Is there a special way for me to care for it?”

“No. You must not remove it.”

* * *

Lan Huan is attempting to write while the sun is still high. In recent days, his arms have begun to shake as well as his hands, so his calligraphy is rough, almost illegible. He no longer sleeps, unless he is given a sleeping draught by the sect healers. He has taken to bleeding from the mouth and ears, as if qi deviating, despite being lucid and keeping meridians clear.

But now: only his hand shakes. He has just completed copying rules 450-600 when Wei Wuxian bounds in through the door.

“Ah, Zewu-jun!” He strolls across and plops down on the other side of the writing desk in the Hanshi. “Your brother said you might be here. I’ve been in Yunshen for six months, now, and you haven’t come to see me once! A boy might get the wrong idea, Zewu-jun.”

Lan Huan cringes at the formal address. “I apologize for the disrespect, Wei Wuxian. Please, address me as Lan Huan.”

Wei Wuxian laughs awkwardly. “Aiyah, I don’t know if we’re so close, Ze- uh, is Xichen-xiong okay?”

“Lan Huan is the only name I still wear, Wei-gongzi.” Lan Huan lays his brush down. It clatters to the side of the inkwell. He sighs. “Lan-xiong would be tolerable.”

“Ah, your brother said you were taking everything hard, but I had no idea.” Wei Wuxian leans an elbow on the writing desk. “You’d think in Yunshen they would have healers well enough to keep you from a fever, though! Are you contagious? I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have gotten— I can go.”

“No!” He tries to leap to his feet. Lan Huan hasn’t had a visitor in so long, he hasn’t been allowed to leave in— in —

“Whoa, Lan-xiong.” Wei Wuxian’s arms steady him where he almost falls, help guide him back down. “You’re in really rough shape, Lan-xiong. Do you know where your fever comes from? I can be on the case, I know lots of herbal medicines these days!”

“I’m uncertain of your meaning, Wei-gongzi.” Lan Huan tries to repeat the sect rules in his head, to calm the anxiety of his spirit. “My spirit may be troubled, but with meditation and cleansing, it will right itself. I am not ill.”

“Your face is all pink, though, and you’re shaking so bad it’s like you’re trying to take your robes off.” Wei Ying’s face has become truly concerned. “Does Lan Zhan know about this? Let me tell him, I’m sure he can help.”

“Wangji receives all reports on my health from the Yunshen doctors in my stead,” Lan Huan says, folding his hands in his lap. “He is better suited to making judgements than I am. This is a physical manifestation of a spiritual disturbance. If I am ill, it is likely the retribution of my transgressions visiting themselves upon my body; in which case, I should suffer through it and find peace throughout. Wangji is ensuring I receive appropriate treatment.”

“Yeah, this definitely isn’t a spiritual thing. I know what bad qi does, remember? I’m like, the original goods of bad qi.” Wei Ying takes one of Lan Huan’s hands. “Lan Zhan might have good sense, but even he doesn’t know everything.”

Lan Huan gently removes the hand from his. Wangji does not appreciate people handling him, he doesn’t trust Lan Huan to know where to draw a boundary. “Wangji’s judgement is impeccable. You know this; after all, he trusted you when no one else did. He is generous and loves fiercely, and would never let me come to harm.”

“If you’ve been sick this whole time, is that why you never answered any of the notes I sent? I didn’t write you as often as I wrote Lan Zhan, it’s true, but I —” here, Wei Wuxian fidgets for just a moment, plays with the hem of his sleeve. “— well, if we’re going to be family, I wanted us to get along, you know? But you never answered me. I thought maybe you hated me.”

Drawing his eyebrows together, Lan Huan tilts his head. “Wei-gongzi, I’m afraid your letters must have been lost.”

“But I always bundled them with Lan Zhan’s, and he got them just fine!”

“Ah. Perhaps, then, you spoke too much of worldly affairs that would hinder my recovery here. Wangji has been very worried that having spent so much time in Lanling, and even in Qinghe during the last few years, has harmed my spirit, and that the song of disquiet played by A- played by Jin Guangyao only amplified these problems. He has suggested I take time in my seclusion to divorce myself of such things. It is why he reads my letters.”

Wei Wuxian spits out the mouthful of tea he had just taken. “He what? Lan-xiong, really? That’s too far, too far, ah. What if you had some correspondence that you wanted to keep just between you and them; a love note, or something? A person has to have their right to privacy.”

“Rights must be earned, Wei-gongzi.” Lan Huan draws out a vial full of the red tincture Wangji has instructed the doctors to prepare for him to help him cleanse his spirit, and pours it into his teacup. “I am in no state to be writing love notes. I… am afraid I can no longer be trusted with such things. My brother loves me, and I love him, that is more than enough.”

“Lan Huan ah Lan Huan…” Wei Wuxian trails off, his face drawn. “I see. I think i ought to go discuss it with Lan Zhan, yeah? I’m sure I’m just misunderstanding.”

Lan Huan would like that. This conversation is starting to exhaust him, truthfully. He would like it to be over now. “Thank you for your visit, Wei-gongzi. Please tell Wangji I am well.”

“Sure, sure. See you again, Zewu— xiong, bye!”

* * *

“I do not recognize this style of robe, Wangji”

  
“You have not worn it before.”

“Is there a reason?”

“It is a style reserved for the senior consort of the Lan.”

* * *

The first time since his seclusion that Wangji holds him is the night he learns Wei Ying is coming back to Yunshen.

Sleep has been troubled lately, for Lan Huan. The world feels numb around the edges, even to the point that Lan Huan can no longer feel the sensations at his fingertips. He has considered, more than once, waiting until the winter comes and going out into the snow. Letting it take him. Letting it finish the job a’Yao — no, he is meant to call him Jin Guangyao now, even in his own mind — the job Jin Guangyao started.

So, when Wangji steps over the threshold of the Hanshi, joy coming off of him in waves, Lan Huan must resist the urge to reach out and warm his hands against it.

He does not say immediately what has happened: he begins with taking off his outer robe, pacing around the room and ensuring everything is in order. Then, he takes a seat beside Lan Huan on the kang, grasps both Lan Huan’s wrists in his hands.

“I resigned as chief cultivator,” he says, and although he does not smile with his face Lan Huan can hear it in his voice. “They will select my replacement on the next auspicious day. I will be able to remain here, no more being called away on frivolous problems.”

“I am happy to hear it, Wangji.” This position has been a burden on Wangji’s shoulders since it was given to him. Lan Huan is genuinely happy to know he has been relieved of it. He loves his brother, he does not want to see him suffer. “Our family will be delighted to have you around more often.”

“Wei Ying is coming back,” Wangji says, and now he smiles with his whole face, his whole body. “Wei Ying is coming back, xiongzhang. I must prepare Yunshen to receive him. It is as if my soul will complete itself. My whole body is alight with it; I am overjoyed.”

Despite the clouds darkening his brow these days, Lan Huan smiles genuinely and warmly at his brother. He inclines his head in a simple bow. “I am honored to be allowed to share in your joy, little brother.”

“Will you?” Wangji is suddenly earnest, gripping his forearms. “Will you share in it? I worry for you. I worry that what was taken from you has stolen your love, when your love was so great. Will you take some of mine, xiongzhang? I would have you share my joy.”

Lan Huan is confused, but the warmth in his chest is seeping out, making him feel alight in a way he has not in some time. “Of course, Wangji.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this: Wangji pulls his wrists, pulls him forward, presses their mouths together with a sigh.

Lan Huan is stiff, at first. He does not know how to take this, he does not want to overreach. Then, Wangji takes a hand from his wrist, places it on Lan Huan’s waist. It burns like a brand. “Please,” he says, tilting their foreheads together so they share breath. “Please. I would share this with you. I am full to overflowing with it. I would give you a new love. A pure love.”

“How would you have me receive it, Wangji?” Lan Huan says, aware of how the warmth has begun to sing through his veins, to pool in his lower dantian. “Teach me how to share this joy.”

“I will show you. I will teach you.” Wangji surges toward him, pushes his robe off his shoulders, lowers his mouth to Lan Huan’s neck. “I will fill you with it, xiongzhang, I will give you everything. All of my delight, all—” he cuts himself off and bites down on the juncture of Lan Huan’s neck and shoulder. Lan Huan keens. He can feel the flush growing on his cheeks.

Wangji takes his hand, brings it to his own chest, his own robes. He guides Lan Huan to press his hands inside, to untie the fastenings and reach down, to touch him, to feel the way he gasps. He feels the storm-clouds in his mind soften into an easy fog, a bright thing that glitters with delight when Wangji praises how well he takes him, how soft and yielding Lan Huan makes his body.

There is joy in it. There is joy, and love, and when Lan Huan lets himself hope, there is forgiveness.

* * *

“Is my relocation a punishment?”

  
“No. I would tell you.”

“Will you join me there?”

“Sometimes. Perhaps every month.”

* * *

“Recite the first precept against wrongdoing, xiongzhang.”

Lan Xichen is stripped to the waist, he is bleeding, he is freezing. His feet are still muddy. He made it as far as the second cliff.

The pain from the lashes struck against his back has sent his head spinning, but it is clear enough for him to begin: “To invite clarity of mind and judgement, remove desire, remove intention, remove passion.”

The principles of the Lan are many, and they are often thought of as having sprung into existence unassisted. As any inner disciple of the Lan will tell you: a man must crawl to walk, and walk to run, and run to fly. The principles are many, and before the principles, there are the precepts, as fundamental as breath.

“Was it desire that led you to break the seclusion assigned to you? Intention? Passion?” Lan Wangji paces to the other side. The discipline whip is stark and black against his hands, it sings with his spiritual power. “Reflect.”

The whip whistles through the air. The pain radiates across Xichen’s shoulders, and he bites his tongue to bleeding before he screams.

They are alone, on a rock outcropping on the back hill. Wangji must have retrieved the whip before he set after his brother. Xichen doesn’t want to dwell on it. 

“Recite the second precept on discipline.”

“Find peace through suffering. Find clarity through pain. The empty vessel must be scoured of impurities; so must you be cleansed of yourself.” Xichen hisses through clenched teeth, not in anger, only to bear the pain gracefully.

“I would have had you learn this lesson another way.” Wangji’s voice is broken. He speaks with sorrow both genuine and profound. “You have suffered enough. I would have seen you safe until we both pass beyond this life. Why would you force me to raise my hand against you a second time, xiongzhang? Would you run off into the night, barefoot, like a madman? Have I so greatly misjudged, that my brother would abandon me?”

“No. No, Wangji, I would not—” But he would, wouldn’t he? The blood trails hot down Xichen’s back; his shame even hotter. He had not meant to run, at first, but when he realized he had made it past the Hanshi grounds —

The eighth strike of the whip sends him bent in two, on his elbows. “Must I ask you to speak the principles on falsehood?”

His forearms bleed from the rocks they have fallen on. It is spring in Yunshen; it is freezing. “Wangji. Wangji. I did not intend to leave you. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I kept running. I have not left the Hanshi in so long, I wanted to see the moon from Yuezhong peak. I used to visit it with— I used to visit it often. Please.”

  
Xichen does not know what he’s asking for — is it for the whip to stop? For Wangji to forgive him, for him to love him again? He feels a tearing in the center of his soul, a moon that threatens to rend itself in two. Liebing is still laying a few feet ahead, where Xichen dropped it.

Wangji crouches near him. He takes Xichen’s face in his hand, opens his mouth, pours a thick tincture into it. It has no taste, Xichen can only assume it is a healing draught of some sort. “For you to heal, xiongzhang, you must return to a state before you were corrupted. Who can understand this more than I do? You must return to seclusion.”

Xichen draws himself up into kneeling again, then bows to his brother. “Zewu-jun understands. Thank you.”

“No.” Wangji stands, turns his back. “No, Zewu-jun… you cannot be Zewu-jun any longer. Do you understand? Zewu-jun was deceived, Lan-zongzhu was exploited, Lan Xichen was manipulated. You must return.”

Under the moon, on the second cliff, Lan Huan presses his forehead to the ground. “I understand.”

* * *

“Xiongzhang. It is time to leave the Hanshi. Do you have your things?”

“I have what you suggested I bring.”

“Good. Take my arm while we walk.”

* * *

Wangji must have knocked gently for many minutes before throwing the door to the Hanshi open, Lan Xichen surmises, based on his look of almost-panic.

It has been a bad week. He’s spent more time than not curled on his bed, the Hanshi locked, refusing food and visitors. When Wangji arrives, he finds Xichen bent over his guqin, fingers almost-bloody, as he plays Clarity over and over, tries to see if he could have guessed its misuse from the rhythm alone. Did Mingjue die thinking Xichen had been guiding a’Yao’s hand?

There is no need to ask whose hand it was that killed a’Yao. Xichen remembers that quite clearly.

“Uncle says you have been refusing visitors,” Wangji says, irritation and concern blending together in his voice. “I was not aware I was included.”

XIchen stills his hands over the guqin. “I did not hear you knock.”

“Clearly.” Wangji comes in, closes the door. “Uncle also says you refuse food.”

“I can practice ineida.”

“Are you?”

Xichen gives Wangji a waspish look and refuses to answer.

With a huff, Wangji presses his fist into his back. “I must apologize, my duties as chief cultivator kept me away from home. I would… not have allowed things to progress to this state.”  
  
“What state,” Xichen says, dull and tired, sharp in his undoing. “Do you not remember the days you spent bent over wangji-guqin, calling to a spirit that would not answer? Allow me my grief, little brother, as I allowed you yours.”

“You cannot stay in grief forever. I will not allow it.”

“It is not for you to allow.”

“I will not allow it!” Wangji storms over, and for a second Xichen thinks he may take the instrument, or take Xichen, force him out of the Hanshi. “I will not have you stolen from me again, not by ghosts. They had their chance to take you when they lived.”

“Wangji. Please, I cannot bear this from you today. I am here. No one has stolen me. I will do whatever it is you need, just… leave me my regrets.”

“No.” Wangji sets himself down, places his hands over Xichens where they rest on the guqin. “I will not let anyone, living or dead, destroy you a second time. I will not leave you here.”

Ah, but Xichen had forgotten: head on, the force of Wangji’s love is overwhelming. He looks into Xichen’s eyes as if he is staring to the center of his soul as he speaks. “You will heal, and return to me. I will do whatever is necessary.”

**Author's Note:**

> the twin jades love each other very, very much
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
